


Worth Your While

by GreyNarcissus



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Enemies to enemies who sometimes fuck, Lascelles loves giving oral, Light Masochism, M/M, Oral Sex, Painplay, Rough Sex, Self destructive Lascelles, The inherent eroticism of first aid, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyNarcissus/pseuds/GreyNarcissus
Summary: After a night at a dreary party, Henry Lascelles finds himself suffering at the hands of some of London's delightful criminal class. He is grateful to Childermass for getting involved but finds himself captivated by him in the act of violence.Written with the support of my faerie co-author Kat.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8
Collections: JSAMN New Year's fanfiction exchange





	Worth Your While

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slow_Burn_Sally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Sally. When I sat down and tried to write a fic about egg-nog I never knew it would carry me here. 
> 
> We hope it pleases you that there is a little more Childercelles in the world.

“It’s called a flip, see. You pass it from cup to cup and it… I don’t know, makes it bubbly and exciting.” 

Henry Lascelles had heard Drawlight tell his honoured guests the same tedious description all evening, with an identical hand flourish every time. 

Having packed his apartments with some of the dreariest elements of the fashionable set he could imagine (and a new cocktail), it seemed that Drawlight thought the whole evening a rousing success. Lascelles swirled his drink and adopted a smile of pure disinterest. 

Adding eggs to a brandy flip didn’t seem particularly festive, but Henry was sure never to be seen without one in his hand. Tedious though Drawlight’s pursuit of fashion was, the idea of being seen as behind on the latest thing would be simply abominable.

He fussed with the broken fob at his waist, with the button at his cuff, with a deeply annoying loose thread at his sleeve. There was something in the air that had made him intensely uncomfortable. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, he had learned to be attuned to the ebbs and flows of a social scene and imagined that this was due to become a thoroughly forgettable evening. 

“ _ Henry! _ ” His name carried across a small group of card-playing revellers that he was being invited to join. She was the daughter of some rich industrialist who fancied herself something of a wild child. Lascelles found her voice moderately irritating and hated the way she laughed. 

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he smiled and finished his drink before crossing the room to play cards with people he hated.

He felt the presence of John Childermass in the house long before the footman got his attention, and it explained the pressure building behind his eyes. Lascelles was sure to demand another brandy before going to meet Norrell’s man of business in the hallway. 

Of course, he was not dressed for a party, Lascelles didn’t know why he’d expected it. But the starkness of his dark clothes and shabby silhouette stood out even more amidst the boozy haze and laughter. He looked as if the sorts of parties he attended would have tapped barrels and reeling fiddles, or other such ruddy-cheeked peasant merriment they had in the north. 

Skimming a disapproving eye over the surly manservant, who leaned against one of Drawlight’s expensively upholstered chairs, Lascelles awaited the arrival of his drink before approaching.

“What do you want, Childermass?”

Unfolding his arms with the arch effort of a cat who’s been disturbed from a long nap, the servant reached into his filthy greatcoat and pulled out a neatly sealed letter. For an awful moment, Lascelles thought he was going to throw it. He was preparing to be outraged when Childermass took a confident step towards him and held out the letter.

“Mr Norrell sends his regards for the season, and asks you to consider these urgent edits to the  _ Friends of English Magic _ .”

Lascelles snatched the note out of the servant’s thick fingers with a scowl. He took in his name written in Norrell’s careful hand. Taking a long sip of his drink, he opted to take his annoyance out on the obtuse man before him. 

“It is Christmas Eve. I am at a party with my friends. Does Mr Norrell not…” he trailed off as Childermass quirked his eyebrow in that insolent way. 

Of course, it was entirely likely that Mr Norrell did  _ not  _ know what was usual for gentlemen to do during Christmas in London. The likelihood of him attending any parties or balls was almost as unlikely as him actually  _ throwing _ one.

“Well, you may tell your  _ master _ that I will incorporate his changes before it goes to print in the new year.” Lascelles punctuated his dismissal with a long sip of his brandy, narrowing his eyes over the rim of the delicate glassware. When Childermass was unmoved by his words, he snapped, “Was there anything further that I may do to aid Mr Norrell?”   
  


“Are you going to be able to manage your work with the distractions of Mr Drawlight? Or you planning on installing yourself back at your house with no staff to wait on you?”

Lascelles almost choked on his drink, so powerful was his fury.

“You went to my house? I do not require a servant to go prying into my affairs.”

He knew better than to raise his voice, but the sanguine impudence of this man was enough to twist his stomach into knots.

“I went to your home to deliver Mr Norrell’s message. Was lucky to meet your housekeeper on her way out, told me where to find you. Very kind of you to give the house all of tomorrow off.”

It was almost more than Lascelles could bear, to be discussed and picked over by this man. All manner of thoughts crossed him, that he ought to have him thrown out for his talk, that perhaps the only way he would learn would be if he threw this glass into the smirking servant’s face.

It was Drawlight’s simpering voice that cut through Lascelles’ rage as he heard him call through from the sitting room. “Henry, are you planning on returning sometime before the Epiphany?” His laughter was taken up by the others and in that moment Lascelles decided he was quite finished with this party. Childermass had swept in like a spectre deliberately to ruin his night. With a grimace, he drained the quite adequate brandy and strode off to make his excuses.

Childermass was waiting for him when he returned to the foyer, the footman gone to fetch his sundries. The last brandy had done little for his constitution, but it was the final festive flip that Drawlight foisted on him that had shaken his stability. 

“Your home is not far from here, I think. I shall walk with you,” came that drawled northern insistence. Lascelles would not have it. There was no hint of a request. The idea that it was a  _ fait accompli _ boiled his blood.

“You shall not. Return to Hanover Square and inform Mr Norrell he will have his corrections. If I wished to be escorted by a servant I should have brought my own man.”   
  


“You gave him Christmas off,” Childermass muttered in that way he often did where he might have been talking to himself or the whole room. Once again Henry Lascelles had suffered quite enough bullish manservants and the dripping company of Drawlight’s friends for one evening. Once his cloak was fastened at his throat and he was able to sweep from the house, he did so without hesitation.

He would not waste another thought on John Childermass.

***

Pulling the thick wool of his cloak up above his collar, Henry stormed through the streets. The cold air bit into him, reddening his pale cheeks even darker than they had been at the party. He refused to believe it was the potency of the drink. Though he supposed having spent many of his free evenings in the company of Mr Norrell, his tolerance might have been somewhat curtailed. 

He had hoped that the drink before leaving would do something to shield him against the bitter winter chill. But it seemed that all he had to defend him were his gloves, his cloak, and his fury. 

What Lascelles perhaps should have been more aware of were the sorts of men who lurked in the dark preparing to take advantage of the unprotected rich. 

It was only the moment he was musing that he should have brought a cane to help him navigate the icier parts of the pavement that he was aware he was being approached. He span to berate those who would come and bother him during his walk and realised two things at the same time. 

Firstly, he was certainly drunker than he thought, the swimming behind his eyes told him that. Secondly, and perhaps more significantly, he was about to be struck. 

Acting with an immediacy that he hadn’t thought himself capable of, Henry Lascelles brought up his right hand to viciously lash this would-be mugger, in the face. The man fell back clutching at his nose and Lascelles turned to run. Into the waiting arms of the man’s allies. One struck him in the side with a hefty club, the second revenged his companion by taking Lascelles out with a blow to the face which rang through his head like a bell.

He heard their voices echoing around him, gruff instructions in the sort of accent that made Henry’s skin crawl. His hat was gone, he had no doubt of that and absently he wondered if his milliner would be open over the new year.

It was only when he felt those awful hands on him again that another bubble of rage-induced panic rise up in him. They were peeling off his fine gloves, they were going for his rings. The thought of these creatures laying hand on his signet ring made him feel sick. Clenching a bare fist he struck out, again and again, hoping to make the same sort of impact he had at the start of the fight. 

Surely someone should have noticed the altercation? Surely someone must be on their way to put an end to this madness. 

Despite Henry’s best efforts to flail the muggers away, it was an unrestrained kick to the side that killed any hope he had. The pain was unbearable and he thought he was on the verge of throwing up and passing out at once. 

With his arms up over his head, curled up to protect him from another blow, Lascelles wasn’t certain when the pressure behind his eyes lessened. He could hear the sounds of a brawl erupting all around him. The cries of outrage and the satisfying thud of fists hitting someone who wasn’t  _ him _ .

Lascelles flinched at a body hit the floor beside him, missing him by inches and he forced himself to look. 

He would know the harsh outline of John Childermass anywhere, but not extended into such savage lines. His greatcoat whipped around him as he struck again, smashing the thick leather of his gloved fist into another of Henry’s hapless assailants. 

Despite himself, despite everything, Lascelles felt his mouth go dry. He ought to be scrambling to his feet, he ought to be retrieving his lost items. But instead, he was absolutely captivated by the spectacle before him.

Childermass was magnificent. He was absolutely without fear as he unleashed savage violence onto the man in his grip. He loomed over all of them as if the shadows of the alleys around them clung to his body like fog. 

It was apparent then how restrained Norrell’s man was in his daily business. The confidence with which he occupied the space was not without merit, and Henry had seen less capable men walk with far more swagger than Childermass did. 

More than that though, there was a light in his eyes that Lascelles had never before witnessed. The thrill of being fully in control of a situation. Of having the upper hand. It was intoxicating.

The man on the icy ground beside him moved to stand and whimpered as he saw the short work being made of his fellows before taking off down the alley. 

More than anything in that moment Lascelles wanted to stop him, to trip him and deliver him into the waiting jaws of his new attack dog. But his limbs were stiff and cold, and the first hints of lasting pain were beginning to seep back into his bones.

The others seemed to have gained the same idea, and he heard John Childermass  _ growl _ into the freezing air. His breath clouding in harsh pants around him. 

He did not think to speak. He had no idea what he might say.

But when Childermass turned to regard him, he felt as if he were falling.

Fists balled at his side, his eyes wild and dark. There was something else there that was beyond rage. Possessive? Protective?

Lascelles shuddered as he heard boots scrape the stone pavement. 

When Childermass knelt beside him, there was a strange gentleness to his touch that burned through all the pain in an instant.

“Are you well, sir?” His voice was rougher than usual and deeper. As if he had somehow awoken from a long sleep in order to deliver this rough justice.

Henry wanted to throw him off. Every instinct ran through him to spit some unpleasantness or comment on how he neither asked to be followed nor rescued. But was there another reason why his cheeks were flushed beyond the cold, the alcohol, and the blow to the face?

Childermass took him by the chin with more care than Lascelles would have anticipated, turning his head gently this way and that, searching his face for injuries, and, after a moment, seemed more or less satisfied. “Nothing terrible. A few scratches, mostly. But you will have a very impressive bruise for a few days, I’m afraid, can't do anything about that."

When Henry finally did bring his hand up he intended to strike Childermass for laying hands on him. He really did. But for half a second all he could do was rest his hand on John's arm. Pushing it away softly. Henry's hands felt strangely naked without his gloves on in the bitter cold. 

"I take no delight in that. I am not some savage ruffian servant."

"Just thought you should know so you don't scare yourself in the mirror in the morning."

He looked around for the gloves but they were nowhere to be found - unsurprising, really. If he thought Lascelles would take them, and they would fit, he might have offered his own. 

"We'd best get you home. Think you can walk?"

Henry nodded. Only aware of how shaken he was as he reached out to use Childermass for leverage and pull himself to his feet. 

"I do not need your help," he hissed, giving all his weight over to the servant before stepping away. He noticed then how bloody and raw his knuckles were from defending himself. He must have landed more blows than he thought.

Childermass, looking completely unconvinced, held his hands out for a few seconds more, watching Lascelles's steadiness in case he needed to catch him. After a moment he gave a very unimpressed ‘hmm’, but seemed to concede, at least temporarily. 

"Well, help or no, you're not going home alone. You're easy pickings like this, and if you get caught again you'll not be nearly as lucky."

Despite his protestations, Henry did not let go of Childermass's arm. There was something concerned in his steps as if he suddenly feared slipping on the ice. His hands were angry and red from the cold, and he scowled at his scuffed boots. 

He barely muttered his 'fine.'

Childermass nodded in satisfaction, hiding most of his victorious smirk at convincing Henry Lascelles to accept help with something. "Good lad." 

His eye caught on Henry's bare hands, and without thinking, he wrapped them in his own for a second. Certain he knew the answer, he asked anyway. "If you want to borrow mine, you're welcome to them. I don't feel the cold like you fancy gentlemen, I can go without for a bit."

Henry balanced the horror at being seen in the thick, ugly gloves or being seen with his hand entwined with Childermass's unwashed hands. Not that he could judge considering how scuffed and cracked his skin was. 

He could not deny, however, the warmth of the unkempt northerner keeping the bitter cold at bay.

"No," Lascelles said, finally. Not feeling the need to explain himself any further, but without the bite of his previous refutations.

Childermass raised an eyebrow but didn’t push the matter any further. He chafed gently at the skin of Henry's hands for a moment, careful of the scratches on the knuckles, to get the blood flowing, before releasing them. 

"Come on then, before they drop off altogether." 

His blood was still fizzing slightly, and he felt the need to be on the move. After a quick glance around to get his bearings, he turned them in the direction of Henry's house and, his hand on Henry's elbow, gently pushed them on the way.

When finally Childermass looked away, Lascelles could get a good look at him. The flush of life high on his cheeks and dark brow, the way his breathing came in ragged clouds around his head. He was palpably aware of the flex of the servant's strong hands, the creak of his leather gloves.

At that moment, Lascelles realised the raw tingle in his skin where he'd been struck, the throbbing in his side, the painful warmth that wasn't quite a blush in his face.

Sensing Lascelles' hesitation, Childermass turned back to him, a little harsher than he meant to be, a little more aggression in his voice and movements. 

"Stop your dithering, do you want frostbite or summat?" 

In this light, he could see the marks of the fight on Henry's face much better. That cheekbone would be nasty in the morning. It'll suit him, he realised. Make him look like he does something with his time other than lounge about in other men's libraries. 

He tugged again on Lascelles' elbow. "I'll bloody carry you if you don't get yourself moving."

With the combination of the giddy blood that rushed to his head and the roughness of that dark voice, he was in a desperate rush to be home. The threat (or was it perhaps, 'offer'?) to be carried did nothing to assuage the heavy thump of Lascelles' heart, and there was something unmistakable in Childermass's tone that caught in his imagination. 

"I ought to have you flogged for speaking to me like that," Lascelles hissed, his step springing slightly. 

"You have such a fascination with that threat, sir, one day maybe you'll even go through with it."

"If you speak to me in that manner one more time then perhaps I might have to," he panted, before realising the situation he found himself in. Gloveless and bruised, crushed against the dirty wool of Childermass's greatcoat. He smelled of pipesmoke and the outside, Lascelles could not say he cared for it. 

But there was an edge to him, his movement, his scent, the sharpness in his voice that he froze. Any observer would accuse him of prowling, more than walking. An energy seemed to be coiled inside him, the last shreds of the fight that he didn't manage to spend before the attackers vanished. His sharp eyes darting about the place, into every shadowy corner, down each street they pass, stalking like a pack hunter, through streets he owns far more than any ruffian born and bred here. He thought for a moment there might be more criminals, come to perform further violence on them both and his mouth went dry. He wasn't afraid.

That wasn't just a lie he was telling himself, it was cold truth. The feeling of the bottom dropping out of his stomach was entirely attributable to the coiled strength in the servant's arms as he swept Lascelles out of harm's way. 

Childermass spotted the ice just in time, catching Lascelles against his chest almost before he started to fall. "Mind yourself, lad."

Lascelles held his breath, hands caught numbly between them both, entirely at his mercy. He had to confess he was disappointed to find it just a puddle of ice, trodden black by countless heavy boots. So much so he forgot to be angry at the colloquial northernism.

He had hoped to see Childermass's body extended into those brutal shapes again. 

For a moment, Childermass held Lascelles against his chest, letting the gentleman get his feet back under himself. He expected him to stand up as soon as possible, shoot some ineffectual barb at him for daring to prevent another injury. 

But Lascelles didn't move. For long seconds, he stayed still as stone, braced against his chest, and Childermass began to be concerned. Until he felt the pause in his breath, the stiffness of all his muscles. 

He glanced around the street in a rush of instinct, before he really realised why. There was nothing suspicious about a man trying to help an acquaintance home in the snow, why should he be concerned about being seen? 

But he knew, of course, what sparked that concern. And he knew, by the way Henry clung to his lapels, that he knew too. And when his voice finally emerged, it was in a low, scraping rumble. 

"I think, Mr Lascelles, we ought to get you inside as soon as possible."

Lascelles was determined not to hear meaning in those words. He could not afford to. He scraped his brain for anything witty to say, any response beyond a noisy swallow and a nod. He could not trust his voice not to crack if he expressed bitter gratitude. Nor could he manage anything he might deem cutting enough for the moment. 

Every moment that passed, got later and later for him to speak at all. Instead, he was content to turn his face out to the cold air and focus on the end of his street as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Childermass waited a moment, for the sharp cut he expected to follow, but none came. So he set Lascelles back on his feet and tugged him back into movement along the icy path. 

As they walked, his mind spun, his feet sure enough to make their own way without much input from his head. Lascelles was injured, probably still a little drunk despite the sharp winter air and the shock of the attack. Besides which, he did not even like the man. What had slipped into him, and out with his words?

It was foolishness, he decided as they reached the elegantly carved steps of Lascelles' house, to try and follow up on that moment. He would deposit Lascelles on a sofa, ensure he was well and not in any danger, and leave. There would be plenty of time, another time, to follow up on that look he had seen flash through his eyes. 

"Will anyone still be up at this time? I can stay for a while if you need help with anything." He forced casualness into his voice.

“I will be  _ fine _ !”

It wasn’t really an answer. He would not be pitied by a man like Childermass. It had been bad enough he had seen Lascelles brought so low by common thieves, but now he was all-but escorting him home like a fragile maiden. 

He scowled at his door as if waiting for it to open of its own accord before he wrenched himself almost free of that heavy grasp. Shoving a purpling hand into his jacket he wrenched out a heavy key. 

“It is a night off. I let the housekeeper go home,  _ remember _ . I am perfectly capable of letting myself in.”

Where his body had been pressed against Childermass the sudden rush of cold air was an unpleasant and unwelcome sensation. He shuddered, the heavy iron slipping against the door and thudding to the floor. 

Lascelles cursed under his breath, knuckles crashing into the door. The combination of his already broken skin and the solid cold of every surface that sent pain shooting up his arm. 

Lascelles could barely choke down the cry of pain. An echo of his cries during the assault before Childermass had come to his rescue.

Childermass swore in a hiss of shock as he darted forward to catch Lascelles, missing by half an inch and wincing on the other man's behalf at the loud  _ thunk _ of his fall into the wood. 

"Christ above, lad, watch yourself..." He caught onto Henry's arm before he could clatter all the way to the floor, supporting him between the door and his own weight. 

After a moment to make sure his charge was not going to collapse at a second's notice, he pulled away slowly and bent down to collect the key. He did not want to risk Henry's balance by asking him to move, so all that remained to him was to lean around him to slip the key into the lock. 

The only thought that was rattling inside the head of Henry Lascelles was the speed that moved through Childermass as he manhandled him on his own doorstep. Outrage and intrigue bubbled up in equal measure and neither had any outlet. 

The rush of warm air from inside the house was welcoming - not the merry heat it would have been earlier in the night, but after this bitter chill, it was better than nothing. The warmth against his face felt too good to describe. But the firm hands at his elbow, his back, his shoulder, all so close to his injured places, was what captivated him. 

How had they both gotten to this point? Mr Norrell’s grubby manservant jostling him through the empty foyer of his own house. No housekeeper to greet him, no water for his bath. It was as if he were dreaming, floating through the night like none of it were happening to him, and as Childermass, at last, pushed the door closed behind them with his foot, the silence seemed to wrap around them as the noise of the night was cut off. 

Thankfully the first room one came to in the hallway had good, soft chairs near the fire. Soon enough, Lascelles was installed into one of them, with more care than Childermass would usually spare him, and he turned to add a few more logs to the fire from the woodbasket. Luckily there was enough of an ember there to get them to light in relatively good order (and if he helped the flames along with a scrap of magic, well, no-one was around to notice or care). 

At last content, Childermass sat back on his heels for a second, letting the warmth of the burgeoning fire wash over him with a soft contented sigh, before he pushed himself to his feet and regarded Lascelles. 

"Right, what are we to do with you now, then?"

Lascelles hated how that voice made him shudder. He had set about awkwardly shedding his cloak in some attempt to leave the cold outside. But he couldn’t avoid the way the glow of the fire shone in Childermass’s eyes. 

As the fire crackled, Lascelles felt the image of the hulking manservant felling a single assailant with one blow, spring to mind. It warmed him deeper than any fire. That grunt of force as Childermass flung a man into the charging path of the third. Had those hands killed before? 

He standing was in good stead. None had seen the assault or knew they both sat here alone. He had no reason to throw Childermass out. And yet that same fear and excitement rose in him as if a whole new fight were breaking out. 

_ ‘Oh god, what if he does try to kill me _ ?’ He thought with a growing, thoroughly misplaced, arousal.

Childermass, meanwhile, busied himself lighting the lamps and drawing the curtains. Those knuckles would need seeing to, he thought to himself, especially after his fall into the door. 

Casting his eyes about, he found the drinks cabinet and decided it was better than nothing. Henry Lascelles did not seem the kind of man to know where his valet might keep anything more useful. A quick rummage around revealed a barely-tapped bottle of good rum, and he extracted it, along with a glass. 

"Lend me your handkerchief, it's sure to be cleaner than mine." The small sop to Henry's fastidiousness was likely to get the gentleman on his side if nothing else. There was something tight in Henry's attitude, something he could not quite read, but he pushed it out of his mind - the man had just been attacked in the street if he was out of sorts it was to be expected.

Why was he doing this? Why was Norrell’s man clattering about his downstairs sitting room like he already worked here, helping himself to Lascelles’ good drink? 

Without much thought he extended his handkerchief, laced through his icy fingers as if offering it to a friend. Or potential paramour. 

As he warmed up even slightly, he could feel pain touching him like knives at his side, his hand, his jaw. It was then that Lascelles felt a dawning realisation. That it felt good, like scratching the most satisfying of itches. As if he could ride that throbbing pain all the way to completion if given half the chance. 

He looked up at Childermass through his fine eyelashes. If Lascelles had been as capable as he had shown himself to be, he should not have stopped beating those men. Especially not to escort an injured man down the street and tend him in his own sitting room.

Almost business-like in his movements, Childermass poured out a shot of rum and took the icy-white fabric with barely a glance. He had done this very thing a thousand times, and probably would a thousand more, for himself and others - but never in such elegant settings, he thought with a wry grin.

He soaked the handkerchief in the glass for a few seconds, his other hand taking Henry's carefully and spreading the fingers open just a little, baring the injured skin as much as possible. 

"This'll sting a fair bit," he warned, his voice as conversational as he could manage. Wringing out the cloth with his free hand, Childermass looked up into Lascelles's face at last. The movement would draw his eyes away, and distract from the burn of the alcohol. 

But as the wet fabric closed over the injured skin, he saw the darkness in Lascelles's eyes. Something curious, and not as unfamiliar as he would like.

The idea of anyone causing Lascelles this much pain ought to have shot him through with rage. He ought to have struck him, or thrown him out into the street with the other dogs. 

But that sudden sharpness of fresh, clean pain as Childermass fixed him with a look, made his eyes widen. He gasped involuntarily, the sudden rush of sensation too much to bear. 

He wondered if all his wounds would feel like that? He considered where he had been kicked on his side. The place where his hipbone dipped downwards onto his stomach. How tender the skin might be there, how exposed Lascelles would be with his breeches pushed down to his knees. 

That image exploded across his mind as the dark stained handkerchief dabbed again.

Childermass held Lascelles' gaze for a moment, watching the pain flicker across his face, before he forced himself away, and made his eyes stay on the work at hand. 

His hands worked automatically, swiping the dirt of the street from the shallow cuts. After a moment he had to dip a clean edge of the handkerchief back into the glass, and, as a sort of experiment, he did not wring it out as well as he ought to have done. 

He let his eyes drift back to Henry's face, watching carefully, before setting the wet cloth to the cuts again. He could tell himself that the twitches in those long fingers were the result of ordinary pain. But Henry would find it harder to keep his eyes clear of anything else.

The hiss of pain was still there. The skin angry red and hot where the handkerchief touched him. His eyes were fixed on Childermass, drinking in the light around him. 

He felt a blush creep up his cheek to mirror the scraped bruise on his other cheek. Was the fire too warm? The pain too intense? What cause had his heart to beat so much faster? What right had it to be so bright in here?

Watching the blush creep up Lascelles's cheek, Childermass found he could not move. He knelt, for a long moment, pressing the damp cloth against Henry's knuckles. 

He could feel the quickness of the pulse beneath his fingers. 

In one swift movement, he stood up, setting the handkerchief down on the table with the glass and bottle. "That should do you for now. I'll be getting myself away."

Standing without a moment of hesitation, Lascelles caught his thigh on the edge of the delicate table, sending it flying to the floor. The bottle thunking onto its side, leaking into the plush carpet. The glass smashing on the stone hearth. 

Lascelles didn’t know what he was going to say. His hand throbbed, his body ached, he was too hot and too cold at once.

Something in the sound of shattering glass triggered an impulse in Childermass's mind. His body jumped to high alert, and he felt his fingers flex, ready to curl into fists at a second's notice. After a moment, he forced his muscles to relax, but he could not keep the adrenaline from pulsing through his blood. 

He could not take his eyes away from Lascelles's. There was a clarity in them now, a steadiness in his posture, that told him the power of the brandy and the fear from the street was gone, washed away by the cold night air and the sting of pain, but still, that darkness lingered there. 

The way Childermass stood, the way his breathing had pitched up, the harshness in his voice. He was lethal. Just being in his presence made Lascelles tense. His collar felt too tight, the silk of his waistcoat a little too restrictive. 

"... Tell me what you want me to do, Lascelles."

His eyes were black in the low light of the fire, the scent of heady rum rose into the air around him. 

He barely had time to consider his answer to Childermass’s particularly loaded question, before his body was twitching and moving of its own accord. 

His hurt fingers were already latched into the lapels of that grubby greatcoat. Bruised lips crushing against the firm line of Childermass’s mouth.

The suddenness movement dragged a sharp noise of surprise from Childermass. Not surprise at the kiss itself, he knew what it looked like when someone wanted to kiss him. But the ferocity of the movement, the fervour in Lascelles' grip that dragged him close. 

His first thought was to register the scent of the party still clinging to his skin, a riot of different people's perfumes and flowers and alcohol. But his second was the memory of every insult, every harsh word and snobbish cut that Lascelles had given him, all in one moment. 

His hand laid flat on Lascelles' chest, pushing him away, so Childermass could look at him properly, look into his face to find the mockery. 

But there was none. Only that naked, burning hunger. It made his stomach twist with need. 

Balling up his hand in Lascelles' shirt, he dragged the gentleman back into the kiss with a growl of want.

‘Lord, how was he so strong?’ Lascelles could feel the tension in the fabric of his clothes straining as Childermass pulled him in close. If he had been under the lingering fog of brandy before, the cold, the pain and the pure aggression of this kiss had scrubbed his mind free of it. Now it was a different sensation that made him dizzy with want.

The growl set a fire in Lascelles as he struggled to keep up. The rough scrape of stubble against his already sore face brought him to the edge of a returning sound. 

Instead, he flexed his split knuckles and raised a hand to twist and rake through the waves of the servant’s long hair. He wanted to make him growl again, to bring out more of the man who had saved him in the street.

Childermass gasped sharply into the kiss as he felt those long, elegant fingers wind into his hair. It was not something he'd expected from Lascelles - but then, none of this was what he'd expected. 

Grabbing him by one hip, he turned their bodies and pushed Lascelles back into the wall of the drawing-room, remembering just in time to catch their momentum with one hand to dull the impact. The shock of hitting his already-knocked body forced a pained moan from Lascelles, who maintained his vicious grip on the other man’s hair. 

"Well, this is interesting," he muttered against the kiss.

It seemed as though the only response he had was to kiss him back. Sinking his teeth into the servant’s lip. Just enough to make him wince in pain. The sharp dig of teeth into his lip pulled a hiss from Childermass, his whole body tensing for a moment against Lascelles and pinning him flat to the wall. 

“Upstairs,” he growled as if his very life depended on it. That if he was not dragged up the front stairs by this roughspun man, he could not be held accountable for his actions.

"Lead the way, by all means." With one final roll of his hips into Lascelles, he stepped away from the wall and shrugged out of his greatcoat, tossing it over the nearest chair. He wondered dimly if Lascelles would be distracted enough not to complain about the smoke-stained wool on his upholstery, but the thought soon evaporated at the prospect of dragging Henry Lascelles into his own bedroom and pinning him to whatever partway-solid surface he pleased.

Lascelles’s hands were sore as he tripped up the stairs, pulling himself by the bannister before the noise of footsteps alerted any of the house staff who might still be inexplicably present. Childermass, however, moved with a practised silence over the steps as he followed Lascelles up the stairs - he almost reached out to catch him as he stumbled, but he'd get no thanks for it. Let the clumsy bugger save his own neck, he grinned to himself as he worked his own waistcoat open. 

He did not look to see if Childermass was with him. He did not have to. Not once had he been modest about how desirable he was, and even now he felt a thrill that creature desired him. That he could drive him to the edge of brutality with his body. 

His hands were already loosening his own neckcloth, fingers skimming across his waistcoat buttons with the impatience of someone who always got what he wanted.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Childermass grabbed Lascelles' shoulder and pushed him back against the wall, pushing his hands away from the crisp white of his neckcloth. He wanted that moment for himself. 

It took Lascelles a moment to focus his attention from the smirk of Childermass’s lips back to the working use of his legs. 

His dark eyes were fierce and sharp as he stepped forward to thumb open the last of the servant’s waistcoat buttons. He paused, just long enough to trail his hand down and down to palm at the front of his breeches. 

"Very bloody eager, aren't you?" Childermass smirked, hooking one finger under the loop of fabric and pulling it from his neck slowly and revelling in the shiver that ran over Lascelles. He pushed the collar aside and pressed a few messy kisses along the line of his neck. The pressure of Lascelles' hand forced his eyes closed for a moment, a shudder of pleasure running through his body. 

“I should say the same of you?” 

Lascelles laughed in a most amused way before backing into his bedroom. 

There had been a fire mercifully set here earlier that had died down to most pleasant embers. The room was not big enough to shed its warmth utterly what easily and Lascelles luxuriated in the feeling as he cast what clothes he’d loosened aside.

Childermass shrugged his waistcoat off and let it fall to the floor, the warmth of the room seeping into him through the now-bared fabric of his shirt, a welcome glow after the relative coolness of the hallway. Nudging the door shut behind himself, he slipped up behind Henry, silent as always, and quickly slid an arm around his chest, pinning the lithe form to his body. 

"You never actually told me what you wanted, and I did ask so nicely," he muttered into Henry's ear, unable to resist giving it a quick soft bite. His free hand slid down the fine linen shirt, to the buttons of his breeches, and began slowly working them open.

Lascelles let out a little gasp of pain as one large hand skimmed over his bruised side in order to reach his breeches, but none could have believed it was pained. Given how urgently he arched his neck to give those teeth more access to the stretch of pale skin. 

“Have you ever taken another man before?” There was a hint of condescension to Henry’s tone as he asked it. More than that though, there was an emphasis on ‘taken’ that left no room for earnest and lovelorn ‘giving’.

Childermass gave a soft, derisive huff of laughter against Lascelles' neck. His hand finished with one side of the buttons, pushed Henry back against him to underscore his point. "Do you honestly think I don't know my way around another man's body?" He nipped down the line of Lascelles' throat, finally fixing his teeth in at the junction of his collarbone, before pulling back just enough to speak. "Don't you worry, you'll get what you're after."

His words hit Lascelles hard. The sheer whine of pleasure could not have been artfully intended. In an attempt, perhaps to reclaim his control or to push Childermass further; he reached back to pull him down to bite his exposed throat again. 

He seemingly had a fascination with wrenching the servant around by his hair, all the while grinding back against him urging him to push further and further, and it drew another low, rumbling growl from Childermass, spurring him on and driving his teeth deeper into the pale neck beneath them. He released his hold on Lascelles' hip and, one-handed, tugged out the ribbon that kept his hair in place. As if in an afterthought, he laid his hand over Lascelles' and wrapped the fingers a little tighter.

"Pick somewhere for me to put you, or I’ll pick for you, and if you don't like it, it'll be your own bloody problem."

The sharp pain that was still bound up in his fingers drew the most outraged and delighted cry from Henry’s parted lips as he shuddered. 

Turning to blink up at him with fog in his eyes it took him a moment to respond. Lost in the promise of earlier. 

“The bed.” Had Lascelles given a boring answer or the more creative? The bedposts seemed sturdier than any bed should have called for and sang the song of a man who ‘used’ it plenty.

"I'm almost disappointed that this is when you're predictable." He smirked and grabbed Lascelles' shoulders, dragging him in for a rough, brief kiss before shoving him back towards the bed. He kicked his shoes off and followed him, pinning Lascelles to one of the posts with a broad hand flat against his chest. 

"Although I have to say, it looks like it can take whatever we throw at it." He wrapped his hand loosely in the front of Lascelles' shirt, holding him in place and leaning in, their lips almost brushing. "Get a lot of use, does it?" Lascelles managed to get part of the way through a ‘how dare you’ before he choked on another moan, the touch of their bodies firing pleasure and pain in equal measure across his face.

Lascelles glared up at him having stepped out of his own shoes with far less grace. Their absence robbed him of a little of his elegant height. Childermass took a moment to enjoy the extra inches he suddenly gained over Lascelles. It was never something he really cared about, but Lascelles obviously did, and it gave him a great amount of satisfaction to watch him surrender it. He watched the emotions flickering across Lascelles' face, before, using the shirt in his hand as leverage, shoving him onto the bed. 

"As it happens, I dare very easily," he drawled, climbing on to the counterpane after him and settling himself between Henry's knees. "Unfortunately for your pride, I don't care too much for however high-and-mighty you might think you are." 

Lascelles seemed to have frozen. Caught between a state of fixed arousal at being in such a position beneath Childermass, and pure rage at being spoken to in such a manner. 

As he dropped back onto the bed, his shirt fell open wider to reveal how badly the bruising had begun to spread down his pale jawline. It did not stop until it reached the base of his neck where the ruffian’s hand had scratched him. It must have been a deeply painful blow to receive, and the skin around the top had been somewhat angered by the constant rough kissing Childermass had subjected it to.

Childermass's smirk faltered, his eyebrows knitting together slightly as his eyes trailed over the bruising. A pang of guilt twinged in his gut. 

With rather more care than he had been using thus far, his hand settled on Lascelles' collarbone, pushing the shirt aside almost gently to get a better look at the extent of the damage. He did not wince outwardly, but ghosts of old injuries of his own made him sympathetic. 

"If you want to stop..."

For the first time since they began this, Henry’s eyes hardened. As if Childermass daring to be sympathetic was too much, even while they were both semi undressed in his bed together. 

“Don’t.” Was all he managed to say. Lying out half out of his breeches, Lascelles refused to be pitied by a man like John Childermass. “You know what I want.” It wasn’t a game any more. And if Childermass were to continue down this course both knew the magic that had been woven over the two of them would be broken.

Childermass recognised it for what it was. He had offered it, and if Henry didn't want to take it, it was his own problem to wake up to tomorrow. 

"What you want is a good bloody clip around the ear." There was a silent acknowledgement in the words, an agreement without speaking it aloud. 

Grabbing Lascelles' wrists in one hand and pinning them above his head in one fluid motion, his other hand finally undid the last of the fastenings on those elegant, delicate breeches and tugged the shirt out of the way. "You know, I've wondered for a long time what you sound like with a hand around your cock." And before Lascelles had time to process the words, he wrapped his hand around him.

The cry torn from Henry’s lips was one of alarm as well as pleasure. His hands grasped at his shirt, pulling it up and around his ribs. Giving Childermass as much mobility as he could want 

The pull of the fine linen exposed another line of scrapes and bruises where he was kicked earlier. Slowing almost a line from his jaw to his fist to his hip.

Giving a low rumble of enjoyment at the reaction, Childermass let him have a few short strokes before his hand stilled. 

He fought back the urge to comment on the darkening line of injury. Lascelles had had his chance. Instead, he released his hold on the slender wrists and pressed his thumb into one of the larger bruises. Not hard enough to worsen it. Just to give that flash of pain that Lascelles obviously wanted. His side throbbed in outrage at the pain, one hand rising up to slap Childermass’s insolent touch away. 

But it was the other hand, tugging just a hint of pleasure from him, that captivated and balanced Lascelles. 

He forced his eyes open, watching how those rough fingers toyed with his body. How he’d seen Childermass use that same hand to beat a man insensible. He shuddered.

Grip tightened around Lascelles, the strokes speeding up just a touch. Lascelles grabbed hold of Childermass’s arm, his elegant back arching slightly to grant better access while his linen shirt gathered neatly around his waist. The movement drove their bodies together roughly, dragging a sharp hiss from Childermass, and in a moment his resolve snapped. 

He grabbed Lascelles' breeches and yanked them down roughly, hardly even bothering to get them past his knees before abandoning the job. One hand went up to that thin, cruel mouth, while the other worked open the buttons of his own breeches. "I think I can assume you know what to do with these," he growled, pressing insistently at Henry's lips. 

As the fingertips brushed the bruises on his mouth, Lascelles scowled and made an obscene noise as his lips parted willingly, tongue rising to accept the intrusion. 

He smirked at the rush in Childermass’s body, recognising that savage energy from earlier bubbling to the surface.

That little noise went right through Childermass's body. He took little enjoyment in hurting something vulnerable, but there was no vulnerability here. This was Henry Lascelles. Childermass knew what kind of viciousness lived in that heart. 

He thrust his fingers roughly, deeper into Lascelles' mouth, finally setting himself free from his clothes and pushing them aside as best he could as he wrapped a hand around himself. The release of that first real pressure, the experience that showed in the skill of Lascelles' tongue on his fingers, drew a rumbling groan of enjoyment from his chest.

Lascelles revelled in this sort of act. The way Childermass probed at his waiting mouth, the noises of pleasure he could draw from the other man drove him to distraction. 

It was all he could do, to reach up and grip John’s wrist, pushing him deeper into his mouth. The act forced his thumb against the scrape on his jaw and he moaned around the thick warm intrusion. Childermass's breath hitched a little in surprise, but it quickly shifted into a satisfied smirk. He pressed his thumb a little harder against the shallow scrape on that delicate jaw. 

"Should've known you'd be good at that, with that clever tongue of yours." His voice came out as a rough rasp, heavy with desire. "One day I might get you to show me what else you can do with it, but..." He gave one last, deep push into Lascelles' mouth, as far down his throat as he could, before pulling them out slowly. "For now, I've got other plans for you."

The promise of the words shot straight to Henry’s lap. He arched up again into Childermass’s fist, chased the fingers that slipped out of his mouth, a trail of wetness left from his lips. 

Lascelles couldn’t know how good he looked, sprawled on his bed with his shirt loose and breeches down to his knees. Blush and bruises marking his exposed pale skin.

His eyes trailed appreciatively over Lascelles's body, taking in the almost artful elegance of the man. Living proof that beauty on the outside didn't mean the inside was pleasant too. 

He settled his fingers at Lascelles' entrance, teasing with uncharacteristic gentleness for just a moment too long, before sliding inside roughly.

It was everything Lascelles had hoped it would be. His brow furrowed as he flexed his bloody knuckles and dug his hands into the bedsheets. 

“Yes.  _ Yes _ , more.” His bright hair falling into his eyes as he twisted on the pillow.

Childermass felt himself throb at the need in Lascelles' voice. It tightened the grip of his hand, pushed him deeper into that tight warmth. He could hardly bear to wait to feel it around him properly. 

He dragged the teasing touch out as long as he dared, before another finger joined the first, his hand moving slowly over Lascelles' cock, a contrast to the slowly-growing speed of his thrusting fingers.

Henry’s hand flew to his mouth to partly smother his next groan. His eyes were screwed closed to ride through the sensation. 

Biting down on his raw fingers, he whined again. Using his slightly bent legs to impale himself deeper. 

It was as if his every moment was designed to poke and prod at the edges of John’s resolve and keep him teetering on the edge.

Childermass's hand moved in an instant, grabbing Henry's wrist and dragging it away from his mouth. "Don't you dare." There was steel in his voice, a flash of command in his dark eyes. 

His fingers moved steadily, the pad of the third pressing just at Lascelles’ opening, not sliding in yet, teasing with promise. "I want to hear every single noise that comes out of that spiteful mouth."

Paradoxically the instruction silenced Lascelles. So very little did these days that his eyes widened in awe. Then the fire seeped back into them as he growled. 

“Move then.”

With a growl of irritation, Childermass pushed inside mercilessly, opening his fingers up wider as they thrust deep. He knew exactly what game Lascelles was trying to play - and he was more than willing to let him. He wasn't in this for the control. He just wanted to watch Lascelles come apart. 

"Enough for you, or are you going to keep pushing your luck?"

“God!” he snarled through gritted teeth. Childermass could feel the throb in Lascelles’ desperate erection before he heard his approval. 

Everything about him was at once displeased and enthralled by what was being done to him, his body both yielding and aggressively tight at the same time.

With a victorious smirk, Childermass gave a few more lazy strokes at Lascelles' cock, and then, slowly, so it would draw his eyes, raised his hand to his mouth and dragged his tongue in a broad, slow stroke up his palm and fingers. 

"Now that was a lovely little sound, but it's not an answer." He closed his spit-wet hand around himself, unable, and unwilling, to hold back the soft sigh of pleasure that the touch pulled from him. His other hand had not paused for a moment, and the thrust of his fingers into Lascelles hardened just a little to emphasise his point. "Enough for you?"

“Nowhere even resembling close,” Lascelles snapped back, though his dark eyes were utterly captivated by the movement of John’s hand. 

Rolling his hips he winced at the stretch to his bruised side and leaned into it, bending his legs to give Childermass more access to his entrance.

"Christ, you are  _ wanton _ ."

The look on Childermass's face betrayed his approval of the thought, despite the harshness in his voice. He opened his fingers a little more, crooking them inside Lascelles to find just the right spot. 

"Much more of this and you'll not need a fucking at all."

Lascelles shot him a spiteful look, propping himself up breathlessly to watch the work.

“You are not thinking of such a thing as dry as you are.” He gasped, his eye darting to Childermass’s waiting cock. How could he maintain his absolutely demanding tone, while lounging so whorishly? Childermass let himself take in the sight for a moment - it seemed a shame, really, not to appreciate a piece of art like Henry Lascelles, flushed red, spread open and propped up on his elbows like this. Such an unpleasant man had no bloody business being so damn beautiful. 

"Well, if you're offering to do something about it, be my guest."

“Come here.” In his hoarse whisper and the dim firelight, Lascelles might have sounded tender, romantic even.

He wet his lips and shifted his legs, groaning as Childermass’s hand slipped free of him, but clearly with a larger goal in mind. 

With practised ease, he flicked his hair back from his face and prepared himself.

Childermass moved up the bed, his knees settling on either side of Lascelles' head. His hand pushed the soft copper waves back, almost gently, before sliding down his chin, pulling his mouth open and ready for him. 

He shivered as hot breath washed over his cock, and, bracing one arm against the headboard of the bed, pushed himself slowly into Lascelles' mouth.

Despite his propensity for always having the upper hand and smirking his way through society conversation, Henry Lascelles took to this particular act with unmatched enthusiasm. 

His mouth was welcoming and captivating in equal measure. Craning his neck he opened up so that Childermass never seemed to meet the resistance of his tongue. In fact, the only mark of stopping he reached was when he felt Lascelles’s nose bury into the thatch of black curls between his legs. 

Then Lascelles swallowed.

A broken, half-choked gasp of shocked pleasure jerked its way out of Childermass's throat. For a moment, all pretence of dominance and control evaporated, as he could do nothing but look down at himself disappearing into Lascelles' throat, those lust-darkened amber eyes gazing up at him filled with arrogant self-confidence. 

He took a moment to steady himself, swallowing hard as he rebalanced himself, and then slowly rolled his hips, pushing himself down Lascelles' throat. 

"God, you are good..."

If Lascelles desired to respond he could hardly manage as he convulsed around John’s cock. Instead, he struck his wounded hand, hard, against his firm backside, holding him there long enough to choke him. The shock of the impact drove Childermass' hips forward, another groan falling ragged from his lips. Unconsciously he thrust down into Lascelles' talented mouth again, and again, and his eyes flickered closed at the rush of pleasure spiking through him. 

Henry’s other hand dove downwards, sliding his fingers up and inside himself, continuing the rough work that Childermass began. 

His goal was not pleasure, though the act of having his mouth violated clearly aroused him greatly, but to make himself as ready as he could be for the brutality he expected.

"You better slow down, Lascelles..." He trailed off for a moment, his breath stuttering, but there was still a note of warning in his voice. "I could happily finish down your throat, but I don’t think that’s what you really want…”

His hand laced into Henry's hair, but he could not bring himself to pull him away. Not just yet.

There was a flash of disapproval from Lascelles, but one tinged with a haze of want. As if the idea of Childermass keeping his fist in his hair and finishing there brought him closer than he cared to admit. 

Nevertheless, he stopped maintaining the pressure in his throat, and let his lips slacken.

His breath was more ragged than he would have liked after so little. He allowed himself one final, slow push down Lascelles' throat before pulling himself out, and smoothed his hair back into place before letting go. There was no softness in the gesture. He just wanted to watch the careful, prim demeanour fall away again. 

"Don't look so put upon, next time you can have it as much as you like. If you can stomach looking at me again." He gave a cold, wicked smirk despite his laboured breathing, patting Lascelles on the cheek condescendingly, a little harder than necessary. 

Manoeuvring himself back between Lascelles' legs, he finally finished the job of pulling off his breeches, being sure to crumple the fine silk a little before tossing them away casually. Laying his hands on Lascelles' knees, he pushed them apart slowly, meeting his eyes with a burning hunger. "You had better be ready for me, I'm not disposed to wait much longer."

Lascelles’ own breathing was a patchwork of his choking desire. There was an absolute painful need in his eyes. As if he were revolted by his own instincts, fighting with his own revulsion. 

He spat thickly into his hand and reached out to grasp at Childermass. Wrapping slick elegant fingers around his already glistening cock, he lined him up with Henry’s arched spine 

“You had better make this indignity worth my while.”

Although he meant to sound his usual haughty and aloof his throat was rougher than Childermass had ever heard him before, as though he had been shouting.

Childermass made no effort to hide the shiver that ran up his spine at the words, at the harsh scrape of that voice, usually so refined and smooth. He wondered to himself just how much rougher he could make it. 

"You've loved every second of it so far."

A few short shifts of his hips settled him at Lascelles’ opening, pressing against him, hands still holding his knees apart. His body almost ached with the expectation of what was to come. 

"Try not to wake the whole street."

He snapped his hips forward and thrust into Lascelles, and the heat and grip that surrounded him almost drove the breath out of his body.

Lascelles was partway through forming some sniping retort when the breath was punched out of him. The burning pleasure and delicious pain that bit into his body made him cry out towards the ceiling. 

His bent knees tightened around Childermass’s strong thighs both trying to push him away and desperately dragging him closer all at once.

Even just half-buried inside him, Childermass was already dizzy with pleasure. His fingers dug into Lascelles' legs and pulled him closer, another roll of his hips driving him deeper. 

"Worth your while yet?" he needled, his voice thick with lust. One hand dropped to the slim waist beneath him and wrapped around it, dragging Lascelles into him as he worked his way into him.

“Have you even... deigned to enter yet? I had not noticed?” Lascelles gasped, a mockery of indifference given how flushed and affected he was. 

He gritted his teeth, placing his feet on the surface of the bed so as to push to meet each laboured thrust. Bright eyes burned above his high cheekbones with lust bordering on hatred as he gave himself up to Childermass.

Fixing his grip harder into Lascelles' hip, Childermass growled and pulled him back again, harder than before, almost all the way onto him. He let himself be baited, let the irritation fill him and drive him on. 

"No-one's ever put you in your place before, have they?" he hissed. "No-one's ever told you what a nasty, self-serving bastard you are." He slid his hand a little higher, and laid his thumb over a dark bruise, pressing down as, finally, he bottomed out with a sharp hiss.

Whether it was being so roughly and completely filled, or the raw throbbing pain in his side, Lascelles wailed in response. 

This was the man he wanted. The snarling, angry dirty creature who had hands that could destroy and a mouth to match. So much power wrapped up in one so beneath him, it was impossible for Lascelles to bear without a potent shudder wracking his bruised body. The shiver through Lascelles seemed to pass into Childermass, and he gave a low, powerful groan as he thrust hard into him, swearing low under his broken breath. 

"God, you love this, don't you? Being taken hard like this, by someone like me... All that time you spent sneering, looking down your perfect nose at me, and now look at you." And he did look, taking in the sight, the flushed skin, the messy hair, and the pained ecstasy on his face. "Screaming the house down for a bloody servant."

How desperate Lascelles was to be outraged. To throw this impudent whoreson out into the streets for even daring to speak to him this way. 

But all that occupied Henry Lascelles’ addled mind was pure, raw desire that flooded him. 

Flayed bare on his own bed, being skewered roughly by such an unappealing man was more than he could stomach. Yet in every way, from his countenance to his shabby clothes, his indelicate features, and the sinister brutality that propelled him; Childermass was everything that he desired. 

He had spoken not a word of a lie since he’d gotten his hands on Lascelles in the street. When he’d put that harsh form to such violence in the name of protecting him. 

Henry hated him. But he had never felt so exquisite in his entire life.

Childermass could see, could  _ feel _ , the battle raging behind Henry's eyes. How much he hated how much he loved this. How he couldn't decide whether he wanted to drag Childermass closer or force him away. 

It filled him with a rush of something hot and triumphant, that wrapped itself around the sheer pleasure of the moment like a flame devouring a coal. 

He steadied himself with a hand on the mattress, just next to Lascelles' head, the other still clinging to his waist and pinching at those bruises as Childermass fucked into him. His hair, loose and falling over his shoulder, fell forward and almost formed a barrier between them and the world, so Lascelles had nowhere to look except into him. 

"I might be nothing but a gutter-rat, but you're the one falling apart underneath me." And he dipped his head down and caught Lascelles in a scraping, harsh, messy kiss, his teeth digging deep and hard into the already-bruised lip. The kiss swallowed Lascelles’ outraged whine almost entirely but did nothing to prevent Henry’s hand from reaching up to yank him back by his long dark hair, and Childermass could do nothing but let out a ragged snarl of pure lust, harsh from the depths of his chest. 

“Yet it is you who ruts like a feral beast... You who surrenders to your- ah! Your baser instincts.” Lascelles’ words were a scattered vicious muttering only interrupted by his anguished cries of pleasure. 

"Call me all the names you like, Lascelles, I can tell how much you love my base instincts." 

One particularly well-angled thrust eventually silenced him utterly, his breath catching as he arched his throat in a silent scream. The tight, long curve of his neck was too perfect to ignore. His hair still wrapped in Lascelles' fist, he jerked his head forward, the pull on his scalp dragging another growl from him as he bit down.

The skin blossomed red there as readily as it had when Childermass dabbed at Lascelles’ torn fingers downstairs (so long ago it seemed now). 

Lascelles himself was lost to it, and the constant dark sounds of slick skin as his body was pounded into the fine sheets. 

His frame was taut against Childermass. Lithe, pale limbs wrapped around him as he let himself be used. 

“There!” He was barely able to breathe. “There! Don’t you dare stop.”

Childermass could sense the subtle change in Lascelles' body, the edge of desperation to the way his hips canted up to meet his own, even through the haze of his own pleasure. 

A fire burned under his skin, and the sound of Lascelles gasping and crying out only stoked it further. His throat scraped roughly with every breath, and all he could think was how good it would be to watch Lascelles in that moment of ecstasy, laid bare and open beneath him.

Digging one last bite into his neck, he pushed himself up, gathering Lascelles' wrists in one hand again, fixing them to the bed above his head as he moved relentlessly, nails digging into the skin where his long, fashionable cuffs would cover the marks in the morning.

Lascelles was in agony with every moment. His spine held him up like a bow. Every muscle turned to the attending of one goal, to drive Childermass deep inside his willing body. 

“Yes, yes! God yes,” he hissed. 

Childermass felt him tug reflexively to take himself in hand and push onwards to completion. But the grip on him was too strong, Childermass’s nails biting home as he struggled and strained. Childermass gave a wicked laugh, a breathy noise that was lost among the moans and gasps. He knew how close Lascelles was, could feel it in every taut jerk of his body, and he knew how quickly he'd follow. He didn't care. All he cared about was more, getting more, driving harder into Lascelles.

"Ask me nicely and I might do it for you." 

“Damn your bastard eyes!” Lascelles let the words spill forth like a panicked tirade before he could think of how he should properly respond. 

He pushed up against Childermass as if urging his body to finish on willpower alone. His blown-out pupils tightened with thwarted annoyance.

His grip tightened around Lascelles' wrists, the nails digging deeper. 

"Suit yourself." The pound of his hips stuttered a little, a note of franticness seeping into the movement. "But if I finish before you, you'll get no fucking mercy."

“No!” That tension again. Lascelles’ eyes flashed up at him, fury evident in every syllable. That Childermass was more in control than he was hurt him worse than every cut and bruise on his pale skin.

“Please...” his lips parted to hide the quiver in them. “I am so close. Please.”

With a broken snarl of satisfaction, Childermass finally relented - no teasing, no smart comment. There was no room in his mind for it. He just slid his hand between their bodies and wrapped it tight around Lascelles' cock. 

"Come on, then," he growled, the rhythm of his movements punishing against Lascelles' hips and his grip on his wrists harsh, the only thing holding him back.

And it was that same punishing rhythm that drove Henry Lascelles to his climax. A harsh sort of noise to be coming from him given how dry and ragged his throat must have been. 

When he came, it was with an almost whimpered cry. The embers’ glow catching his austere features perfectly in a mask of anguish and bliss. Spilling against the stomach of John Childermass for longer than either of them thought possible.

Everything about Lascelles - the look on his face, the sharp, keening cry, and the feel of his muscles clenching and pulsing - was almost too much for Childermass to bear. His arm shook, nearly giving way beneath him, as his climax tore through him, a harsh snarling noise of pleasure ripping out of his chest. 

For one long moment, he could barely breathe, and when at last it came back to him, it was a rough, scraping rasp. Lying beneath him, hot and wracked with the shuddered shocks of post-coital shame and joy, Lascelles was quiet at last. His breath came steadily but deeply, his copper hair sticking to his forehead, while the blush around his jaw was angry from his earlier injuries.

Childermass gave himself a moment, swallowing hard against the burn in his throat, before pushing himself up and away from Lascelles. He considered trying to kiss him again, just to infuriate him - but there was no use both of them getting punched in the jaw tonight. 

"Worth your while, then?" he asked. 

Lascelles was quiet for a long moment, his eyes closed as if listening to the sounds of the room. 

“Yes. I think it rather a fine investment for my time.” He said at last, stretching his arm behind his head. His body a tapestry of his night’s adventures.

"Careful, Lascelles, that was almost a compliment." He ran his hands down the insides of Henry's thighs as he pulled away, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sighing in pained contentment as his muscles stretched out. 

He pushed his hair away from his damp forehead with one hand, leaning back on the other casually - it was not a conscious attempt to frame himself dashingly against the light of the fire, but if it happened he would hardly complain.

“I would not waste compliments on you. Fear not.”

Lascelles appreciated the view for the first time. His tired eyes skimmed hungrily over the feet of lean muscle and scar tissue. 

He was more contented than ever that such a rough implement of pain could have been turned so wondrously to his advantage. 

And all it took was a little scrap of his dignity, shared in deniable privacy. It had been worth it.

Yes, it has been entirely worth it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was only supposed to be a little Christmas gift fic and it spiralled into a 12k beast.


End file.
